


The Wardrobe

by nowstfucallicles



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, Masturbation, Mild Angst, Orgasm, Pansexual Character, Sexual Content, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-10
Updated: 2019-12-10
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:13:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21745078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nowstfucallicles/pseuds/nowstfucallicles
Summary: The Doctor’s wanking fantasies are mostly made up of his own memories. Which isn’t always… helpful.
Kudos: 14





	The Wardrobe

He kicked off his shoes. That spot on the right, with the void-proof pyjamas and Regency coats, was looking good. Quite comfy. He sat down, leaning back into the ruffling, billowing coats. For a while he just sat there, listening to the hum of the TARDIS. She never sounded better than she did after recharging. His thoughts drifted along, almost vacantly, through the quiet buzz. 

Then, remembering what he had come for, he slipped his hand into his pants. He blinked slowly, his fingers stretching out. Moving to his cock, his touch wrapping slowly around the base. _So… familiar._ His own soft weight. The whiff of skin. He tightened his grip somewhat, focusing on the sensation. He was in no hurry. Didn’t have to be anywhere. Not for days, not as far as he knew. 

He started stroking himself, lightly, wondering how long it had been since the last time. He hadn’t been alone that much lately. His cock stirred and he could feel it already. Just a ripple, just a taste of it. That feeling right before pleasure. He moved his hand upward to brush his thumb along the head, circling it with a sigh. Perhaps it had been longer than he’d thought.

One of the coats came off its hanger and tumbled into a heap around him. He stopped for a second, smiling to himself. Why the wardrobe? He had no idea. He’d always liked the room, with its ever-present, dim melody of the past. All of the pasts. There was a strange layer of peace to be found in here. He opened his fly and pushed down his boxers, and his fingers curled around himself again, loose and warm. He began stroking the base of his cock, moving a little forward into his touch. _Oh, good. Very good._

He kept up the small, rolling motions. His shaft grew harder, and he felt the quiet first flush of anticipation, like a breath taken too fast. Something so small and fickle as bodily pleasure, wasn’t it weird that it could be so strong? So very urgent. The sensation was threading through his mind, well-known, familiar. The sticky-warm taste of want. 

Alone time wasn’t so bad, really. A family thing, that’s what Martha had said, though it wasn’t what he had heard in her voice. She had wanted to go alone. Maybe wanted a bit of a break. 

Tension was winding slowly through his body. So simple. So sure of itself. It knew what it wanted, that’s what instinct was, knowing, in the most elementary way. He stopped for a moment, bringing up his hand. Licked his palm and then gripped himself again, inching upward in a tight, slick motion. _There... that’s it…_

His eyes closed and he began dipping into his memories. Looking for something. A memory that would go with this, a blueprint, maybe a snapshot, of pleasure. Something to feed into his touch. He browsed through the many layers, bright, vibrant moments he had kept, hand-picked once, knowing he’d want them for later. Desires and pleasures, each of his bodies, each life, with its own longing. Its own hunger. He kept stroking himself, tuning in and out of the memories. Searching for a bit of inspiration.

 _That one…_ Old, yes, but what a memory. His breath caught in his throat at the first suggestive flash of it. What a night it had been. What a long, fantastic night. He was stroking his upper shaft, his touch hitching a little as the memory returned to him fully, vividly. It had been softer, that touch. Unbearably, almost cruelly soft. He remembered the way it had travelled down his stomach, coaxing him awake. Not really fingers. Not a hand, either, and still, such a familiar feeling. She had surprised him. He remembered her pulsing feel, her touch wrapped around his cock. The dim sound of the ship around them – he’d never asked about its name, or hers. He’d thought he’d go mad from that touch. 

He began thrusting up into his own hand, instinctively, roused by a strange echo of desperation. As if still seeking that touch. Any fraction of it, any pale imitation, just to feel it once more. His cock was straining with the memory, heavy with it, and he shuddered. Leaning into that hunger, just like he had then. 

There had been times like that. When it had felt good to give himself away. On a whim. To follow some keen curiosity. It hadn’t been this body, not this life, but he still remembered, all of it. He knew those pleasures. Could still feel the way his pulse had been beating, like a strong, buried thing. He focused, diving back into his memories. Into those touches, the trails of movement, of bodies, tastes. So many... 

His cock was leaking from his long, twisting strokes, pressing hard and slick into his grip, and for a moment it seemed so strange to him, how simple it was to pleasure yourself. How little it took, when you couldn’t even tickle yourself, or make yourself laugh. How it was just there. Barely needing anything. 

He picked another memory. Old, ancient, but again, _extraordinary_. The corner of his mouth twitched. It had been a reward, of sorts, and he’d never known anything like it before. Stimulation through the nerves. The touchless, pure caress of a telepath... It had left him shaken to the core, spent, panting, pleading. Wanting more. Even after his return to the TARDIS, it had been echoing through him, again and again, aftershocks of pleasure, deep, brilliant pleasure that had left him helpless, his mind swaying, come dripping between his legs, over and over again. He could still feel it. His cock could still feel it. It had not been a false promise, even the regenerations since hadn’t worn off the edge of it. Shades of red were dancing before his eyes, just like back then, and he kept stroking himself, adding on to the sensation. He was taut with want, arching his hips, as if he could somehow still feel more, feel it like he had then.

He gripped himself harder. He was leaking onto his fingers, watching himself with hazy fascination. He tasted the bloom of arousal in his mouth. Felt that the world was becoming slow and small around him, more and more. That this, too, was a break of sorts, a luxury. He couldn’t feel it right now, the limitless gaze of time and space, and all that was out there, summoning him, beckoning him. Only the here and now. 

He kept stroking his whole length, up and down. There were sparks of pointed pleasure, spots hit just right, then missed, then hit again. His arousal was still building, somewhat slower, but still urging him on. So many receptors, in such a small place. _So easily excited…_

His cock. He felt he really liked this one. Not that there had been anything wrong with the ones before. He didn’t know why. Why it was this body. These feelings. This sense of himself. But he had become attached, strangely, in many ways, to who he was now. 

He reached for another memory. Almost blindly, reached out in a vague direction. This time, it was a sound, more than anything, the contours of a deep, hoarse moan. Not his own, and he stopped for a moment, feeling himself shudder. The intimacy of that sound, even drawn from his memory, still affected him. Would always affect him. He felt a drumming, stretching pressure at the base of his cock, reaching down into his balls. He lifted his other hand and slipped two fingers into his mouth. Loosely, wetly, while kneading the base of his cock. Teasing it. Sucking lightly on his fingers. 

But the memory, unlike the ones before, was a dangerous one. A goodbye shag. A farewell, really, and he knew better than to dive in any deeper, go back any further into the memory, to remember all too vividly what it had been like. What they had been to each other all that time ago. But he remembered that quick, hard, slippery rhythm, because it had been rough, it had to be, so they wouldn’t feel the parting that was to come, they’d just be left with this, a memory to return to, in-between galaxies, in-between times. He had felt the wall against his shoulder more than the pain of knowing he would have to go, the pent-up heat of those fingers shoved into his mouth, getting the sadness fucked out of him, not quite, but it had been a valiant attempt. The best they had managed.

His fingers were circling the swollen head of his cock. He was balancing away from the memory, pulling away before it could trap him. Before that old, dull ache that had never quite left, could fully return to him. The ache of wanting to go back. Of wanting to have it all again. To never have lost and never have left behind. Not him. Not any of _them_. 

He pulled his fingers from his mouth, watching his precome spill out with his long, idle strokes. It felt good. Still felt good. He hung on to that feeling and kept going. Back in the now, back from the depths of memory, focusing on the way his nerves were still excited and his body still worked up. On the slipping sound of skin. The tight, slick grip of his hand. 

If he kept going like this. If he steered clear of those dark corners, then he could still get on with it. Arousal was washing through him, a bit of a surprise, thick and heady. Still there. Sweat clung to the back of his neck. He leant back a little, bracing himself, and then he began thrusting up into his grip. It was sloppy, didn’t quite match his hand, but he liked the feel of it, the rhythm, all instinct, the body telling itself what it wanted. Pressure was building inside, sweet and tight. _Keep going…_

Before he knew it, another memory slipped through. Maybe because it was still so young. Maybe because it carried the same kind of pain. He could almost feel her. Could almost feel that warm morning light and himself, rocking into her, slowly, half-hard. Whispering dirty, teasing nonsense into her ear. There had been huffs of laughter between them, and he remembered wanting to draw it out. Wanting it to go on. _So much more of it._ She had blushed, not from the things he had said to her but from her own cheeky reply. And she had grabbed him, pushed her hips up and taken him in even deeper. His mind had nearly shut down from how much he wanted her. To love her. Make love to her. To be with her any way she’d want him. While still knowing, from that smallest of voices in the back of his mind that one day. One day it would all come to an end, that these moments would leave him, one by one, and he wouldn’t be able to hold on. 

His hand stopped. It sank into his lap. His cock still hard, straining, but he knew he had gone too deep into the memory, and a cool, relentless sense of loss washed over him. It took hold of him, fully. He hated the feeling, hated how intimately he knew it. That it was enough to touch a memory, touch it a little too carelessly... He hated how messy it was, how tender and unprepared it always found him. For a while he sat motionlessly, feeling his body grow empty and his thoughts become clearer. Tasting only a hint of arousal on his spit now, his cock sagging between his legs. 

He grabbed himself again. It was spite, more than anything now. He shut his eyes tight and pushed away the memory. Turned away from the rawness of his heart and shoved away all the memories. Not just of her. All of them, all the echoes of pleasures he had known, that he had kept, heavy, dripping memories, full of lust and crawling hunger. He didn’t want them now.

He squeezed his shaft, humming softly to himself. Listening into the thrumming, thick feel of his cock. Into the pleasure meandering through him. He added a few tight, quick strokes, and yes. It felt good, still, again. _By design. By grace of a clever, clever evolution._ He leant back his head, closing his eyes. His grip pumping up and down his length, almost too hard for him to enjoy. 

He licked his palm again, plenty of spit, its taste mellow with arousal. He continued, with bated breath, with determination. He was getting harder with each touch, revelling in the hot swell in his hand, the strange drawn-out friction, again and again, his grip pulling back hard against the base, into the hungry pressure there, then inching upward, full of anticipation, a soft, breathless stop as his fingers clamped down, just below the head. He kept returning to that pulsing, greedy spot, prodding and teasing it, then taking off some of the pressure, gliding his hand up and down, just to drive into it again, harder, faster. 

His breath was stuttering and his eyes stung with sweat, and he swallowed against the first taste of coming. It was better than it had any right to be. Full of the promise of bliss. One that would just go on and on. He could feel his body shift, could feel himself want to fall forward into it. He fought the urge for another moment. Slowed his hand. Buried himself in his own touch, hard, slow, steady. Groaning as he held himself tight enough to feel the dull touch of something unpleasant within the building wave of pleasure. 

A sharp, stripping joy. Shutting out the world around him, the solipsism of sex, an urge that was naked, alone, but enough in itself, a simple thing, only wanting this, a desperate, violent, greedy thing that was still at peace. He was rubbing the rim of his head, twitching from the sensation, so close. 

Then he choked down on his shaft, leaning into the hit of pleasure he knew was going to be the last. It carried him over. Burst out into an impenetrable silence that stretched and stretched. Devoured him. 

Tension twisting through his body, pulling him together, then breaking away like sobs. Wiping him clear, making everything light, giving him everything. He came long and hard, barely breathing into it, but rocking cramped into his own hand, come spurting through his fingers. 

The rustling sound around him was the first thing he could hear again, the clothes, hangers swinging lightly above him, while his whole body kept heaving, becoming lighter and lighter still. 

He was breathing heavily, feeling tired. Another good feeling, the feeling right after, when the rules of the world were still suspended. A molten point between the body and the mind. He stretched out his legs and sank back into the thick cushion of coats. His cock and balls were still out, soft now, dripping. He could still feel his pulse there, an afterthought of arousal. 

There was a gleam of pride, too. A ridiculous, small sense of accomplishment. He listened into the silence around him, into the quiet buzz of machinery. Feeling his body settle back into itself. Letting his thoughts drift below the heavy, quiet feeling. The pain, too – what was left of it. It was becoming enveloped in the warmth of receding pleasure. He nuzzled into the nearest coat and closed his eyes for a moment. 

It had been fun… More than he’d thought it would be. Wasn’t so bad really, having your ship to yourself. Having some time on your own. Just every now and then.

**Author's Note:**

> I honestly don't know what David Tennant will make me write next.....
> 
> Thanks for reading!!


End file.
